Dear Diary
by Mr Sinister
Summary: Rebecca Braddock writes down her thoughts and feelings over the first few days of her European vacation. Spare a thought for her, won't you? :) Please read & review!
1. Default Chapter

Dear Diary

**__**

Dear Diary

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Monday, July 12th

This is a first for me. I'm not sure what to write. Mum said that having this book would help me get down as much of this trip as I could and help to preserve my memories of what I've done here when I go home. Right now, I'm still trying to adjust to being here in Paris. I'm sat here in a hotel room trying to go to sleep – it's three a.m. and I still feel awake because of the damn jet lag. This seemed like a good way to make myself tired as quickly as possible, so what the hell. 

So… what have I done so far? Well, I've seen the Eiffel Tower and I've seen the Louvre. They were… interesting, I suppose. I've never seen so many paintings in one place; Professor X has quite a few, admittedly, but this was quite a surprise. A nice surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. I really liked the view from the top of the Tower – I felt like I had no limits. If I had Aunt Jean's telekinesis, I might have flown from the top of the tower and not looked back, just to experience the sensation of seeing the city go by under me. As it was, I stayed there for about half an hour, just looking out at the city and thinking. I had a lot on my mind.

Why was that, I hear you ask? Well, I know you didn't really, but Mum says this whole process is supposed to be cathartic in some way, so I'll just pretend that you did. Lord knows catharsis is something I need right now.

It's been a hard two days. Without Mum or Nathan to help me with my telepathy, it's been a struggle to keep out the thoughts of all the people around the city. I never thought my powers would be so much of a curse. I wonder if it's the way that this city is filled with lovers and other romantic thoughts? It'd certainly explain a few things – like how lonely I felt on the first night here. I suppose that was kind of inevitable, given the environment I'd been in for the past two months. That was all right, though; I went out and found a bar to drink myself stupid in, which was all right, I suppose. Cost me a fortune; I didn't feel like accepting the offers of a drink from the young guys who kept trying to charm me like cut-price versions of Gambit (and believe me, that's _not_ something you want to hear. One Cajun charmer is quite enough, thank you). Still, at least they left me alone after I gave them a good hard glare. I wasn't in the mood to hear about how beautiful I was in badly-accented English.

At least, not from _them_. 

Perhaps if I heard it from Hank, I might be more willing to listen. 

I think this is what Scalphunter called a "crush" – he used it to describe Riptide's feelings towards… who was it… Salma Hayek, that's it. But… why _Hank?_ He's so much older than I am, for one thing. Not to mention the fact that he's covered in blue fur. 

Maybe fur is what does it for me, I don't know (in which case, why haven't I got pictures of Kurt Wagner printed out from the Professor's Cerebro database and stuck on my walls? Why don't I have feelings for Wolverine? Or Walter Langkowski? No, I think it's just Hank that's the problem…). It may just be that he cared for me while I was recovering from what happened to me in Hoboken, and I'm reciprocating in some way, but what does that say about me? It makes me sound like a Stockholm Syndrome sufferer – and I'm pretty sure I'm not that fragile or stupid. I know Hank would never do anything to hurt me, because he's a friend of Mum's. She'd skin him alive if he did. 

She'd skin_ me _alive if I told her how I felt, I'm sure of it.

Settle down, Rebecca; you're over-reacting. I don't think she'd go that far. She'll be shocked, I think – that's a given – but I also think she'd understand. She told me about a crush she had on John Lennon once – but then again, John Lennon wasn't covered in muscles and hair, was he? Which makes this all the more difficult. I don't know what I'm going to do, I really don't…

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Tuesday, July 13

I did some more thinking today, while I was taking a boat ride on the Seine. I'm going to tell Hank how I feel when I get back home – hesitation be damned. I can't stand this feeling being inside me any more; I feel so weak and stupid. Why did this have to happen to me, anyway? I was a _Marauder_; I didn't have to deal with these feelings. They weren't important. I didn't think about them. I didn't have to. Sinister told me what to do and where to be, and that was that. He never told me that I should try and exercise some kind of humanity. The rest of his Marauders were able to suppress that for the most part, so why can't I?

But why am I even thinking of that? I can't think of anything I'm more ashamed of now than what I did as a Marauder, even if it _did_ give me the inner strength to be who I want to be. At least if Hank knows how I feel, he'll be able to help me get through it. God, I feel so stupid… I should just have tried to get a crush on Ricky Martin or one of those stupid N*Sync morons. Even the damned Backstreet Boys would be better than this. At least then I could have indulged myself with the whole package – and I could have at least put a poster on my bedroom wall to drool over. This way, I just get to feel embarrassed and awkward whenever Hank is around. 

Watch me leap for joy.

Mum would probably say that it's the Braddock way – we just can't take the simple path, so we have to make things difficult for ourselves. Well, I don't want to end up with bionic eyes and a different face and body for my troubles, thank you very much. Mum's had enough alterations to last the two of us for the rest of both our lives. Just let me reach twenty-five without a single power-switch, power-change, or power-loss, and I'll be happy. I like my telepathy, and I'd like to hang onto it. 

Where was I… oh, yes, I was in the middle of wailing and gnashing my teeth about Henry-bloody-P-McCoy, gorgeous-bloody-blue-furred-doctor-to-the-X-Men. Much as I know that this will change the way we relate to each other, I can't keep these feelings inside of my head any longer (even though I hate them with a passion. Why did being human have to be so _difficult?_ I get the feeling God was having one of those days when he made mankind). Maybe Hank can talk me out of it, I don't know. I'm sure he's had to be a listening ear for the rest of the team on at least one occasion; maybe he can help convince my heart that these aren't real feelings after all, that they're just a teenage flaw that I can't get over quick enough. I'm supposed to be an adult, for God's sake! I can't keep having these kinds of stupid impulses creep up on me all the time! It'll affect my everyday existence, I know it – I saw how Riptide's performance went downhill when he was talking about that woman, and I saw how Scalphunter kept punishing him for it – and I don't want that to happen to me. I'm not that weak or stupid. I know what's happening to me; I wish I were able to burn it out of my system somehow. If only I were able to go to a local chemist and get a pill to make these stupid, illogical feelings go away, I might feel better. But, apparently, things aren't going to be that easy.

In retrospect, perhaps leaving him behind was a bad idea. Sinister's memory implants taught me all kinds of poetic little sayings, not the least of which was "Absence makes the heart grow fonder". I'm starting to think that the person who came up with that one was wiser than they knew…

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Wednesday, July 14

Well, I decided to get past this ridiculous situation today. I thought I deserved the rest of my holiday intact. I needed some closure – some resolution – _some_thing! So, I made a call home about an hour and a half ago. Since it was late afternoon here, I thought it would be okay, and – surprisingly enough – it was, since it was around midday there. Mum sounded overjoyed to hear my voice – she had to stop to take a deep breath now and then because she was gushing so much. I kept telling her that I wasn't exactly gone forever, but then I suppose that's what being a parent is all about; not taking everything for granted. It's something the two of us are going to have to work on, I guess. 

I told her all about what I'd done in the past couple of days, and I told her about the souvenirs I'd bought the rest of the team so far (I thought she might enjoy hearing about the cheap, richly-scented cologne I bought Gambit, and the monogrammed mug I got for Scott).

Then I dropped the bombshell. Mum sounded like she'd been gut-shot at first, which I can't blame her for. But she didn't scream at me, which was a good start, I suppose. She took a deep breath and asked me how long I'd felt this way. When she heard that it had only been a month and a half, I could almost see her relaxing on the other end of the line.

She told me that it was okay, that I wasn't doing anything wrong, and that I shouldn't worry – Hank would understand. She laughed, and told me how her crush on John Lennon had been so strong that she'd wanted to be his wife more than anything in the world. I have to admit that that made me laugh as well, and she scolded me for ruining her moment of advice-giving. "I don't get to do it that often," she said, "so don't make me feel stupid when I do, all right?" I think if I'd been there, she would have been smiling while she wagged her finger at me. Then she told me that I could speak to Hank, if I wanted to. I think this was her idea of catharsis again.

Of course, I refused.

She chuckled and I heard the sound of the phone being passed from one hand to another, and I tried not to curse out loud when I heard Hank's wonderful bass rumble on the other end of the phone.

"Greetings, oh junior Braddock," he said, and I felt my heart flutter at the sound. And oh my God, did I feel stupid because of it. I was glad I was alone, that's for sure. "How goes your sojourn in the City of Love? Have you yet found yourself a sterling young man with whom to pick the fruits of passion?"

All I could say was "Not yet." My throat went drier than the Sahara. I couldn't even lick my lips, I was so petrified. Hank didn't seem to notice, though – he told me that all I had to do was flutter my eyelashes and the boys would fall at my feet. He told me that I could have any man I wanted, because I was beautiful, like my mother – which was exactly the wrong thing to say. He wasn't making me feel any better, that was for certain. Not that he was to blame. This whole situation was all my fault. If I hadn't said anything to Mum, it wouldn't have happened – but I had, so it was, and now I had to deal with it. I couldn't say much anyway – Hank is very talkative (I think that's one of the things that made me like him in the first place. I thought it was… cute… the way he expressed himself. God, if I ever use the c-word again, I think I might have to shoot myself. It's so… _insipid_. Still, it doesn't change the fact that Hank's speech patterns were giving me heart palpitations, no matter how unwillingly I had to endure them), and he was happy to keep telling me how wonderful Paris was. And the sad thing was, I was happy to keep listening, despite desperately wanting to hang up and break the spell. He could have told me my forehead was erupting with pimples and I still would have sat there like an idiot, hanging on his every word. 

That's when it happened. Hank was in the middle of telling me how Notre Dame was architecturally distinctive when I blurted out "I love you."

_I love you._ Can you _imagine_ anything less eloquent?

At least it got everything out in the open relatively painlessly, I suppose. That's pretty much the only positive thing I can think to say about it. 

Hank almost swallowed his own tongue at that, I'm sure of it. He couldn't speak for about five minutes. I swear I could hear him opening and closing his mouth on the other end of the line – which only meant that I kept trying to fill the silence with silly little apologies, like the idiot I am.

"It's all right, Rebecca," he finally said, in a really nice (nice? NICE? What kind of a word is that? What kind of a person am I turning into?!) soft voice, freed of its usual wordiness. It was… different. "You don't need to feel ashamed." He still sounded shocked, but at least he was still talking to me – which was all I thought I could have hoped for, really, at that point.

Then he said, "Because frankly, anybody who _didn't_ love this bouncing blue sack of scintillatingly sexy studliness as soon as they saw me should have their eyes examined." I couldn't believe it – he was joking with me after what I'd said to him! But then, that's Hank for you – always ready with a quick joke. 

"You're gorgeous, Rebecca Braddock. Make sure every man you ever meet knows it the way I do."

With one sentence, he made me feel better about myself than I have since I arrived here in Europe. I thanked him, and he said "We can talk more about this when you get home, if you'd like. I'd like to, you know. I miss our little chats in the med-lab."

"Thank you," was all I could say. Well, what else was I going to do? Just because I felt good didn't mean my tongue was working again. I don't think I could have said anything more if I'd tried. 

"I'm going to pass you back to your mother, now," Hank said softly, and before I could protest, I could hear Mum on the end of the line again.

"How'd it go?" she said, as if she couldn't guess.

All I could say was "I hate you."

And all she did was laugh.

You know what, diary? It's funny, but I'm actually looking forward to going back home now. Hank will be there, for one thing, and we can talk this whole stupid situation out like grown adults. And I can throttle Mum for putting me in this situation in the first place. All the same, it's been good for me to get the whole thing off my chest; I swear it would have ruined my holiday for good if I hadn't.

Doesn't mean I'm going to let her off easily, though…


	2. Chapter Two

Dear Diary **__**

Dear Diary

Part Two

_Thursday, July 15_

It's evening here in Rouen, and I'm so tired – although this time it's not from jetlag but from actually getting here. Knowing how to drive is one thing, diary – actually doing it is another matter. Added to that, the locals are getting rowdy. I think it must be because it's near the weekend, and they're as tired as I am – only they're not showing it one little bit. Perhaps if I'd visited somewhere quiet like the Channel Islands, I'd be getting more sleep right now.

Oh well… I made my bed and now I've got to lie in it and not get any rest, despite my best efforts.

And that's not just because of the noise outside. I'm… excited, too, in a weird kind of way. After what happened yesterday – which I'm still going to get Mum back for, don't you worry about that – I can't stop smiling. I feel like a weight's been lifted off my shoulders. Even if I'm still not completely comfortable with the whole situation – and I'm not – at least I know Hank understands. I know Mum would too – but then, like she keeps telling me, that's her job. Hank doesn't have any such obligations, so he could just as easily have snapped my heart in two without a second thought. 

But he didn't.

Oh, I know that means about as much as getting smiled at by a cute (there's that stupid word again! What is _wrong_ with me?!) guy from across the street, but it makes me feel a lot better, nonetheless. Hank's a good man – if a little lax with his razor – and I know he'd never do anything to hurt me. Like I said before, he's probably too afraid of upsetting Mum or me to do that – he'd probably feel that he was betraying his Hippocratic Oath. He includes emotional pain in the "do no harm" part, I guess. I'm grateful to him for that – I don't know what I'd have done if he'd done anything else. Maybe I'd have finally given in to these feelings, I'm not sure. It's so strange… I don't know what to write to explain how I feel, diary. Mum would, I think, but then Mum's had a lot more practice than I have. Maybe I should be looking at it from the other direction – what would Dad do? What would Uncle Scott do?

Uncle Scott would probably try to put a brave face on and try to make out that nothing happened – either that or he'd take Aunt Jean up to Anchorage for a while and "share his feelings." Or he might just talk to the Professor and try to get somebody else's perspective on the whole situation – but if you ask me, the Professor seems like the wrong person to ask. His lover is millions of light years away, after all – he's hardly the one to ask about romantic problems, when he's got going the longest long distance relationship that I've ever come across (not that I've come across many, diary, but you get the idea). And Dad? 

A few years ago, Dad would have probably curled in on himself and brooded, alone, in the dark – but I don't think he'd do that now. He'd probably tell me that I have to grab life with both hands and not let go until I've squeezed every last bit of fun out of it. That sort of sums him up in one sentence – my dad, the millionaire playboy, who finally found his heart again after losing it so long ago. 

It's funny, diary – I have two dads, effectively, but I feel closer to my legal dad than to my biological one. I suppose that's because Scott is doing his best just to let Mum and Dad raise me as their own – he has enough offspring to worry about already, what with Nathan, Nate and Rachel running around doing their own thing all over the planet. Oh, I know he loves me – he shows me that every day I'm around him – but I just get the feeling that he's afraid I might end up bitter and alone and scarred like Nathan, or possessed by the Phoenix Force like Rachel, or virtually out of control and bouncing from place to place like Nate. All of those things are weighing on his mind, I think – it'd be pretty unusual if they weren't. Dad, on the other hand… he doesn't have those fears at the back of his mind. I'm just "daddy's little girl" to him. We drink beer in front of the TV together (well, _he_ drinks beer. So far I've been forced to drink lemonade, but I'm working on that…). We go to Coney Island together. We visit the Village together. We do Dad and Daughter "stuff". I know that Scott and Dad will both be watching me closely when I… _if_ I… manage to get Hank to go anywhere with me, but I'm guessing that getting Dad's approval will matter more to me than getting Scott's. I'll be happy to get it, sure, but if I don't, then… I won't get it. That's not saying anything negative about Scott, though – it's just the way I feel…

Good night, diary. I think I'm getting eyestrain from the way that this lightbulb is flickering, so I'll stop now. Maybe I'll get some sleep, maybe I won't… we'll have to see… g'journey, diary…

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Friday, July 16

I walked a lot today. I walked through the town at about seven in the morning, and I didn't stop until I came back here twenty minutes ago. I bought myself some croissants for breakfast, and just one pain au chocolat as a special treat. Mum would probably scold me for doing that – considering her diet regime and how much exercise she gets, she doesn't really have to worry about getting fat, but me? I still have to watch what I eat, even with an "optimised metabolism" (or whatever the hell Hank says Sinister "gifted" me with). Still, eating the croissants warm while just sitting on a bench in the centre of the town, watching the place slowly coming to life was a wonderful experience – I'd never thought of doing that before, even back home. This is what Mum and Dad wanted me to do the most, I think – just to see how humanity works, right down to the most everyday level. It's… interesting. 

And what was even more interesting was the fact that not one of the people I met – not a _one_ – called me a "filthy mutie", even though I'd forgotten to put my contacts in. They were a little taken aback, I think, but they were polite anyway – and they didn't form a rampaging lynch mob like you'd see sometimes on the news back home. It's probably one of the reasons why Mum and Dad come here so often; at least here, Dad can go around without his image inducer and just be who he is. I think if I went to Amsterdam it'd probably be even more relaxed – there, you can pierce everything every which way, and nobody bats an eyelid – but here, it's more of a surprise. It's a nice surprise, sure, but a surprise nonetheless. And with that said, I really don't want to risk it again. Given what Hank says about norms in general, it's probably better for me not to give them any bait that might tempt the less tolerant ones into trying to hurt me. Today was a nice break from having to hide what I am, but that doesn't mean I should get lazy. I came here for a holiday, but I'm not going to get complacent because of that. It'll be safer in the long run. 

I wonder how Hank manages to cope with what he is – what he's become. I know his current form isn't the one he was born into, but still… it must be hard for him, sometimes, to be so publicly known as "that blue-furred guy from the Avengers", and for him not to really be able to go out in public without an image-inducer. People who don't know him any better probably think he's a monster, but then they don't know him one bit. He's kind, gentle, and he… listens. No matter how much he talks in between what you have to say. 

Oh God, diary… I start off writing about how much I enjoyed today, and I end up soaking you in drool. Some big mature girl I am. I guess I have more of a crush on Hank than I thought. And I thought it was pretty big anyway.

Which means it's going to be even more fun when I get back home…

… if your definition of "fun" means tongue-tanglingly awkward – even if I _want_ to go through with it, I'll probably end up babbling like an idiot. 

Oh well – perhaps the next few days will help take my mind off the whole business. G'journey, diary – I _really _have to get some sleep now; after last night, I feel as if I've been awake for two days straight. When you start to feel like somebody's poured sawdust into your eyes, it's not a good sign…

__

Saturday, July 17

Well, I'm supposed to be moving again tomorrow – I don't know if I really want to. I like this town. It's peaceful – something I've been missing a lot recently. Whether it's been internal problems or problems with relating to the world, I've not really been settled as much as I could be. Mum and Dad (and Scott and Jean) have been a great help, but I think this was really what I needed. Being here, doing things for myself… I feel like a human being, not some specially created killing machine. And with that in mind, I think I can safely say… I'm free. Free to do whatever I want, whenever I want to do it (within reason, I guess. I can't see Mum being overly pleased if I decided to join a travelling circus, or something equally stupid like that). 

Hmm. Travelling circus… Now _there's_ an idea for a future career option. Maybe I should stock up on sequins and swimsuits now… no. I don't think I'd really fit in. 

That's the problem with me, really, isn't it? I don't really fit in except with my own kind.

My own kind. What an awful thing to say. Humanity is my own kind, not just mutantkind. Sometimes I still let Sinister's stupid, pointless, vicious dogma slip through without realising it, and I think this was one of those times. It hurts me to be reminded of what I was, diary; I never want to go back to that. I hope I never will. 

But sometimes, diary, I feel like there's this red veil across my eyes – like I'm seeing the world through His eyes, through His morals, through His... oh, I don't know _what _He sees the world with. It's getting easier to push it away, but it'll always be a part of me, no matter how much I try to forget it.

It's a pretty sobering thought. Makes everything else seem pretty inconsequential when you think about it, doesn't it, diary? All I can do is try to get on with my life as best I can. That's all. 

It's not much, I suppose, but it'll do. It'll do. 

If it means proving Sinister wrong, it's got to be worth it.


End file.
